Hard Cover
by BucklesintheSun
Summary: The Fallout universe makes little apology for what it does, so I'm not. Come as you are and enjoy. Rotating viewpoint told by chapters. Female Wanderer. Agatha/Wolfgang mention. Ghoul love. Cursing. Alcohol. Sex. Drugs. Adult situations.
1. Chapter 1

Hard Cover

A Fallout 3 Fan-fic

With thanks to Setrus for the title, sitting through trial runs and being supportive.

I don't own Fallout 3 or the Fallout universe and its various peoples, places and other junk belong squarely to Bethesda and their writers.

------------

Chapter 1: Lone Wanderer

------------

Turning down the radio on the Pip-boy, Isidore spat. "Did you hear that shit? Three-dog called me a fucking hero... Oh, look at me, I crap flowers and fart rainbows..." She made an overly cute face over hands clutched to her chest, sucking her lips in like a beak and opening her eyes into saucers.

The replying grunt was followed by a gravelly, "He hasn't seen you put a live grenade in someone's pocket."

She shook her finger, losing the act. "Hey, every one of those douchebags deserved it. Especially Moriarty."

There was a rattling laugh, slightly digitized because of the suit's comm. "Better them than me."

"You're so sweet. Honestly, I don't know how my teeth haven't rotted out being around you." She shook her head, pulling up her goggles and settling them on the slick combat hood to rub the sweat out of her eyes. "How's that air-conditioned tin-can feel? Comfy?"

Charon rolled his shoulders and his power armor hissed obligingly. "Very."

"Lucky bastard." Isidore grumbled. She stunk like a dead yao gui and no wonder, it'd been a week since her last shower. A long, dusty, hot trek in the scrub and rads was worth the caps but Wadsworth was going to have a fit about the laundry. Damn robot didn't even have a nose and just looking at sweatstains was enough for him to start making gagging noises. "So what do you say, over that next hill then? See what we can see and then go back and give the info to Reilly?"

"If that is what you wish."

Isidore narrowed her eyes at him. "We had a talk about that ingratiating business, right?"

"Yes." His tone was very mild. It was a clear sign he remembered and was whipping this out on purpose just to push her buttons. Charon's games with authority could either be twisted barbs or designed for sport. This felt like the latter.

"So what would be your preference?"

Charon seemed to contemplate that a moment, his helmet cocking just slightly back as if studying her. "...To get you out of the sun. We have been active almost 46 hours. You do not look well."

"I swear, Charon, sometimes you sound like you're my mother..." She laughed soundlessly. "Alright. I'm following you-- where's cover? We can nap or something and then head back tonight when it's cooler."

"A wise decision."

Isidore rolled her eyes. She made a half-formed kicking motion towards his backside as he crawled past her.

"At times like this, I am glad for the armor." He grumbled.

"Pansy."

It took almost an hour before they happened upon an abandoned shack. Isidore's energy was fast lagging and her sunburned skin stung. Charon gave a silent sign for her to wait in the shade by the door while he made sure the building was clear. Her stomach tensed for the call to jump through the yawning portal, rifle blazing. It didn't come. Instead her companion appeared and motioned her inside.

The air was dusty and dry, but it was cooler than outside. This was largely due to the fact a hole ventilated a top corner of the roof, showing a small mote of green-gold sky. Isidore finally let her shoulders sag. "This dump got a bed?" She asked.

"Mattress. On the floor in the next room."

"Thank Maa." The loose boards that made up the floor creaked as she walked across them. For a few hours, at least, it would be nice not to wonder who or what else she was going to have to put a bullet in.

As she passed the doorless threshold she sighed, pulling off her goggles and hood completely. Her hair, still indigo from Snowflake's recent dye-job, was all but plastered to her skin and dangled in her eyes. Noticing the color again made her smirk. He had mentioned getting something called 'body wax' if she was interested and had given a meaningful glance at her pants. Truth was she didn't have a razor or the time but when she expressed this to him, he'd laughed and said the wax would do months of work all at one sitting. Besides, Snowflake had few pleasures in life and getting to smooth the skin of a pretty smoothskin would make it worth it to him. How could she argue with logic like that? Man knew how to make a sale and compliments came her way rarely.

That's how she'd ended up with poor Freddie Gomez back in the vault. Crazy and ugly went together like peanut butter and jelly.

Even Karl hadn't commented on anything outstanding except the prospect of free sex. She was breathing and had a twat and that was good enough. A pig, but he was a man nonetheless, and had anything moved him other than the urge to screw he hadn't said a word. To complete her transformation into a true wasteland whore, he'd even given her a discount at his store and was all smiles when she came up to him from then on. She and Nova had laughed about that for weeks, how he'd fuck over everyone in Meresti for a piece of ass, but it had felt dirty all the same. Maybe that's why they'd laughed- to wash that feeling away. If anyone knew the pain of having to swallow pride, it was Moriarty's former employees. Bless them both, Nova and Gob were often her rocks in the storm in those early months when she hadn't known shit to step in it. They were good people that cared for her and made all this worth doing.

Fuck if her father was. Running off, sacrificing Jonas and leaving her to the wrath of the Overseer and his minions. Dad wasn't stupid. He must've known what was going to happen. Take care of herself, sure. She'd taken good care of herself-- with three feet of ashwood and a 10mm. They were the only reasons she'd gotten out of the vault alive. Just as fucked up as outside, ultimately, with people willing to watch on the sidelines rather than help when bad things went down.

She yawned. More or less stumbling by now, she made it to the carelessly dumped mattress and almost fell into a sit. Isidore stayed there for a few moments, just appreciating the chance to relax in the shade while her muscles ticked and complained from overwork. She smiled a wide, close-mouthed cat-like smile at her reflection in a rusting toaster nearby. A bit of missing lip that distorted the expression and flashed tooth was a gift from that idiot Butch long years ago. It was mate to the sharp crescent-shaped scar on her forehead from the same fight. Combined with the slightly lighter outlines of her goggles and the border of her combat hood, she reminded herself of a crazed raccoon. No. A crazed raccoon with things to do, she corrected. Equipment to be taken care of, trash to be dumped, all that jazz.

There was some shuffling in the other room followed by the telltale click of a tripmine being laid. Even in the heavy armor Charon made very little noise. Still in the throes of repairing her combat shotgun with half a bleary eye, she almost didn't notice the ghoul's approach when he finally did join her. The clicks falling silent should have been clue enough. That's when she admitted she was exhausted. Had he been an enemy, she could have bought the farm right here.

"You should sleep." He said flatly, his ravaged face still hidden behind the impassive dark helm.

"Don't want to blow my hand off next time we're out whacking mutants. Soon as I'm done here, I'll sleep." Isidore looked at him pointedly. "What about you, need me to check the refrigerator for leaks?"

Charon tapped his wrist, pulling up the suit's HUD. After a few moments he replied, "Yes."

Setting aside her gun, she took the helm when he offered it and started right to work while he stripped off the heavy suit.

Charon always had a faint aura of unease when she didn't react with disgust to ghouls. He didn't say anything, he wasn't much for conversation, but something passed silently every time. Isidore almost sighed, but kept it to herself. Whatever that came from, she wanted to stomp on it. She didn't care that hers would be the second pair of boots to the task. If people had done evil to Charon in the past, or around Charon, they likely wound up like Ahzrukhal as soon as he had the option of taking care of them. Slave he might have been made, but he wasn't an evil man. Nor did he tolerate such when he had the option. He'd probably already dealt with them. It didn't make her stop hating each nameless "owner".

Her hands worked in sharp movements as she thought.

"Who are you killing?" He asked.

Isidore stopped mid-motion, surprised. He didn't often initiate conversation. A guilty expression crossed her dusky, sunburned face.

Thinking and not talking again, Izzy.

Charon used to be irritated when she talked, so she'd learned to shelve it. Far be it from her to impose on him anymore than she already did. His life was shitty and pointless enough as it was. But, if he wanted to, far be it from her not to respond. She mustered a smile for him, to let him know he wasn't the object of her irritation.

"Oh, lots of people. Too many to count. Sometimes my father's on that list too. I still haven't decided what I'm going to say to him."

Charon grunted. "Maybe wise to let him talk first."

She nodded. Not something she hadn't thought about already, but still good advice coming from a good friend. Yes, friend. She imagined him that despite that awful contract hidden under layers of fabric and armor in the cloth bag around her neck. It was awful in the old sense, terrible and awe-inspiring, to hold a man's soul like that.

She wasn't sure she believed him even though he insisted several times that the purchase was more important than ink and paper. On rare occasions she felt the need to stare at the hated document he eyed her with the kind of look that promised insanity should something happen to it. It's not power she'd ever have wanted for its own sake, but she hadn't taken it for fun. He needed to be free-- even if his mouth insisted otherwise his eyes said differently-- and she needed help. Together they could scratch mutual itches.

He watched her for awhile, as she repaired his suit with plates taken from dead outcasts they'd come across. She felt slightly wistful at the attention. It wasn't the first time she'd been struck that he'd been a handsome man. Her mind filled out his features idly-- strong profile, red hair, tall and broad shouldered. He didn't smile even in her imagination, but that was alright. Charon usually didn't smile unless he was killing something. She chuckled as she slipped a new fission battery into the armor.

"Something amuses you?"

She looked at him for a long minute and decided to go with most of the truth. "Laughing at myself mostly. I know you can't, but sometimes I forget that contract. Believe you're here because you want to be. Even imagine you to be my friend." Isidore shrugged. "I'd like to think you would be if you had the choice."

He didn't offer an opinion on the subject. Not that it hadn't been expected. His thoughts, his past, those were his. Isidore respected his privacy. There was a strong feeling that it wasn't a luxury he'd had often. Bastards.

"What would happen if I tore it up, Charon?"

"... you would still retain my service. The paper is only a reminder. A new one may be drafted at any time to replace the old by a current employer, so long as the terms of service remain the same."

"And you can't be freed?"

"You have asked this before."

"I know. I know..." She set aside the armor as it ran through its self-check diagnostic. "But I don't like slavery, Charon. There has to be a way of freeing you short of putting a gun to my head or yours." She finished reassembling her weapon as she spoke.

He sought out Isidore's face instead of looking through her. "I am not a slave. You have purchased my service. You are not a bad... employer."

Tossing the gun aside she cut him off. "Stop. There's no way to make the situation pretty. Believe me, I've tried."

He recoiled, his face going blank. "You may always sell my contract, if you are displeased."

"NO!" Isidore suprised herself with the vehemence of the response. The words came rushing out beyond her control-- due to tiredness or just the hipocrisy in general, she wasn't sure. "I will not have that on my conscience. With me you at least have something halfway decent until we can figure out how to deprogram you or... or... nullify the programming that's there..." She sucked in a deep breath and then let it out. It was an attempt at calm she didn't feel. She felt powerless, disgusted with herself, and furious with a broken world that had made a person like Charon a slave. "And I do think of you as my friend. I'd miss you, even as much as I wish that you were sticking to me like a bloatfly on tarpaper because you wanted to instead of having to."

"...as I said, you are good."

She ran a hand through her sweat matted hair. "So Three-Dog keeps telling me and everybody else who'll listen. ...why do I feel like a sack of crap?"

Charon's grim expression spoke volumes.

"It doesn't get easier does it?"

A faint negative shake of his head was the only answer she received.

"I think I'm ready for that sleep now." Her voice was small, tired.

Charon nodded. "Water first. Then sleep."

She took her water ration mutely and swallowed most of it down without tasting it. The rest she patted on her abused skin. Moira was going to have a field day with the blistered mess when she got home. "I'm warning you now, I reek." Isidore muttered after taking a strong whiff of herself, then made a face and laid down on her side of the grungy mattress.

"It does not bother me." Charon stretched out next to her, his leathers still very cool from the climate controlled suit. Isidore was glad he didn't argue over sleeping arrangements anymore. That first night home, when he'd tried to sleep on the floor next to the only bed in her house, had been exasperation itself. She'd demanded that he either take the bed alone or climb in and share, because she wasn't going to treat him like the dog. He'd been ever so proper about it, even huddling his large frame against the wall to try and not touch her. Now-- now it was old hat. Space was invaded and bodies nestled. That was the arrangement and it was comfortable for both parties, so she hoped. Charon never complained.

"Thank god, because I'm about to claw my nose off." She yawned.

A dry, raspy chuckle followed her into darkness.

When Isidore was stirred from sleep, she'd have given anything at all to be back in Megaton and taking a personal day so the option to roll over and ignore the gentle shake was available. Not that she was actually dreaming about anything worthwhile, but every ache and pain she had at the moment settled into her bones and she was not excited about another six to eight hours of combat and sneaking just to get back to Ranger HQ. Instead she slowly opened her eyes to be met with Charon, already armored and ready to go.

"I let you alone as long as possible, but if we are to use cover of dark to hide our movements we must leave soon."

She nodded at the digitized voice and forced herself to sit up. "Just a sec, let me get motivated here." She loosened the breastplate of her armor enough to get at the zipper in her jumpsuit, then slicked back her hair as best she could with her hands. Donning her goggles, she then slid her combat hood over and tucked it in her suit, sealing it up to her chin. Righting her gear took less time than she imagined it would. Always practical, Charon had already taken that time to gather his mines, whisking them away in his pack for later use and stood waiting. A shot of Med-X to dull the throbbing aches and a couple of bites of mushy ant meat later, it was time to go. Too soon she was up and out the door after her companion.

"Hold on, big guy. I gotta take a piss." She muttered when he made to start leaving immediately. "How about you?"

"Already answered nature."

She shrugged and crept around the side of the building. Thankfully her gear had a trapdoor, and she employed it while scanning the surrounding scrub. Nothing worse than having a radscorp crawl up your butt while you're otherwise distracted. Of course she could have had Charon stand guard but that wasn't exactly fair to the man. That done she took stock of the situation. Somehow she always got started in the dark.

It had been night when she'd left the vault too. Looking up had floored her. Ever since she could remember, the vault had been her home. Suddenly the roof was gone and there was nothing but blackness dotted with stars. Sure, she'd seen pictures of them... holos... but nothing like the real thing. The sky swallowed her and made her feel small and blessedly insignificant. After the nightmare of escape, the cosmic sea had washed the horror of Jonas' blood and the screams of the dying out of her head for a brief moment. Now, as she righted her clothing, she was just glad her armor stank so badly nobody would notice she didn't have anything to wipe with.

Life got in the way of appreciation of beauty. Sad but true.

"Good to go, Charon." She called in a low voice as she came around the rickety shack. "You ready to split?"

He nodded. "I shall follow."

"Capital." Her reply was part half-hearted pun, part agreement.


	2. Chapter 2

------

Chapter 2: Charon

------

Pocks filled with stagnant brown water seethed with radiation. While 101 avoided them, he trudged through. The warmth made his legs stop aching briefly. Armored boots were heavy, had soles like battleship plating and made his joints spazz. He wished the more flexible ceramic plate boots that 101 sported came in his size. He'd move faster, though they were making good time for a change despite the terrain. Maybe testament to 101 knowing her limits. She needed a break for a few days. Maybe a week. Whether it was at Ranger HQ or at her home didn't make much difference to Charon.

He put his mind back on the landscape.

This whole nameless area was torn up like a giant hand had reached down from the sky and scraped the earth. He supposed you could call the nukes the hand of God, if you were crazy like those Church of Atom retards. Constantly trying to touch him and blessing him, "glorious Son of Atom" while the rest of the town gave him looks that said he was garbage. A freak. He tolerated the bullshit because his employer lived in Megaton. It didn't mean he had to like it. Especially that Jericho character who made lewd comments under his breath and shot him the finger when she wasn't looking. Sometimes Charon tortured 101 over it, made her squirm and flash those sad, angry eyes at him. He ground his teeth together. He knew it was wrong, felt repulsed by it every time his mouth formed the words, but what recourse did he have other than his employer's conscience? She wouldn't give him permission to kill the wretched waste of skin.

Traveling rough meant they missed a lot of the Raiders on the paved roads. Normally he'd have complained at the lack of targets, but 101 wasn't at fighting fit. As much as it was his duty to protect her from harm, that was easier if she could help. To be honest, he had gotten out of shape in the Ninth Circle and sometimes it came back to bite him in the ass. It had certainly showed early in his employ to 101. Chasing her through the tech museum had gotten him knocked out by an automatic door, of all things. Not his finest moment. The constant activity at his employer's side had changed that. He felt tight again, almost like new, and his reflexes were catching up to where they'd been before his contract had been sold to Ahzrukhal.

When they came upon a ridge made of rocks and smashed slabs of concrete protecting a small valley ...over the side of a boulder 101 went. His employer scrambled over rockfalls and junk like a spider. Jesus. At least she trusted him to meet her at the bottom. It was something to watch but Charon preferred not to overtax himself if there were an easier way around an obstacle. Especially not in this power gear. To do anything else would be a waste of energy in his book.

101 was too direct for that.

While foolish when taken by itself, the quality was something he appreciated. A person could talk until they were hoarse -- hell, his current employer lied to people at the drop of a hat if it suited her purposes-- but their actions couldn't hide what they were about. Hers spoke of gravity. Duty. Not just to some kind of high-minded bullshit like the Brotherhood, but to people. All people. Even ghouls. Even him. It was novel.

Ahzrukhal had behaved towards him as if he were somewhere between a prized piece of furniture and a deadly toy. As if he didn't have a mind to understand the evil wrought around him or the will to care. Any ghoul that left Underworld was target for the bastard's contacts in Paradise Falls. He hadn't even attempted to hide the transactions from Charon. Just grinned that shit-eating grin of his and counted his blood money. Perhaps he forgot the bounds of the contract. Charon was glad, if so. It had been satisfying to make him pay with interest. He'd left the Underworld to believe their missing had gone feral. They suffered in that shame and fear too long. The people he tricked into using the 'mercenary service' Ahzrukhal offered to guide them across the wastes deserved their retribution.

The saloon owner, 101's friend. Carol's boy. He deserved it.

One of the first things Charon had done in Megaton, upon having a moment alone with Gob, was inform him that Ahzrukhal had paid for his crimes. Perhaps he'd been a bit stiff with the delivery but it needed to be said. He also needed to distance himself from that sick fuck and his lust for caps. Despite Gob's obvious shock, he'd dropped a half bottle of gin, it made Charon feel clean. He'd nodded and taken his leave after 101. Like her, he didn't need payment or thanks.

He couldn't pinpoint another employer that had acted quite like 101. Not all of them had been assholes, but a few of them had met their ends with a shotgun blast or a combat knife in the dark. It was just a matter of being free enough to reward them for their behavior. 101, by comparison, managed to act like a human being, asked for very little and met him halfway on most everything else. Sure, she had this naïve complex about freeing him that seemed to lurk just under the surface but he wasn't offended by the urge. It just didn't spawn a whole lot of hope. The task would require considerably more effort than finding her douche father and smoothskins got distracted too easily. Once 101 figured out how serious it was-- and she would, the nosy bitch-- she'd settle down about it. She wouldn't even have to ask him, just poke around the Wasteland until the information came toddling out to her like some lost kid.

Still, when her mind changed and she wanted to sell his contract, she'd have little to fear.

Something prickled along his back as he rejoined her, crouching at her side. "Be careful..."

She looked back to him. In the shadows and through the lenses on the helmet, 101 was a green outline and gray smudges. "What?"

"Something's not right. Feels..." He glanced around, using the armor's scanners as well as his own innate sense for danger. "Feels like we're being watched." The HUD revealed large shapes. They were slow and the bobbing looked like grazing to him.

101 frowned deeply. "...Maybe we are." Her perception wasn't as clear as his but she closed her eyes briefly as if feeling with her mind or listening intently. Everyone's sense for danger was unique. He felt it up and down his back like a physical thing, barbs digging into his spine. After twisting her lips, she opened her eyes and fiddled with the dials on her Pip-boy. She leaned over and bent her arm so he could see the dim display. It revealed only brahmin. He didn't like it. Something was wrong.

"We should wait." He offered. A beast would soon get tired and move on if the prey wasn't interesting. A man would get frustrated at waiting and show himself eventually. A bot would just keep coming and they'd know soon enough...

Her frown didn't lift but she nodded. Reaching slowly for her pack, she pulled the sniper rifle out of the cache. After assembling it, she scanned the surrounding hills with the scope. "I still don't see anything. You wanna try?" She held the gun loosely so it could be taken.

He nodded. The rifle fit easily in his hands. It was intimate, familiar in a way some of the weapons he often found himself using weren't. He'd always been curious as to why.

Pain lanced across his mind for a second as he wondered, causing a spastic blink.

Tesla.

The word came unbidden to the surface of his mind.

Tesla.

He blinked again.

Fuck.

The answer wasn't coming tonight either. There was just a void and a flash of muddled images that tasted metallic-sweet to his memory and warned him if he tried again, there would be pain. Not that it hadn't been helpful in the past. The ability to blank out at a word, or fly into a rage, was useful. Had been his entire life, least what of it he remembered. Fucking words.

"Something wrong with the scope?"

Charon grimaced behind the helm's faceplate."No."

Peering at him behind her goggles, his employer's expression was midway between concern and curiosity. Still, she didn't ask. Good. Discussions were tedious. Words again. Meaningless shit things for the most part. More often than not they wasted time.

Charon raised the rifle again and scanned the rocky scrub and smashed highway. Eventually his scope drifted into the hills, letting his instinct guide the direction he faced. A muzzle glinted in the faint starlight and he felt his lips curl back in a savage smile. Just as the mighty head raised and the huge animal lurched to claim a brahmin, he squeezed off a shot. It was beautiful. The bullet slid though the air like it was specially greased for the purpose of burying itself in the yao gui's skull. "Howya like that? Huh?" He muttered as he watch the huge animal fall.

101 whistled appreciatively. "Think the cows mind if we get yao gui to go?"

Cows? Oh. Brahmin. Yeah, 101's vocabulary was strictly pre-war at times. Antique. "Nah."

Yao gui was fatty as hell, you had to chew it like gum in some cases, but it didn't taste bad if you charred it a little and ate it hot. Better than eating those insta-meal salisbury steaks. The chemical cooking process still worked when you opened the sealed packets but... eh. They tasted like salted shoe-leather. Charon slung the rifle across his back, which now felt comfortably unbothered, and led 101 over to the giant animal with a certain amount of stealth. The brahmin were uneasy but didn't associate them with the loud noise. They simply looked on with wide, trusting dark eyes. That was fine by Charon. Being trampled by livestock wasn't in his top ten ways to die.

101 eased her pack to the ground to remove a sheet she used for wrapping meat they collected. Some people butchered a kill without thinking. 101 had some art to it. Probably because her dad was a doctor, scientist, whatever. Didn't matter. It was just a good thing she was handy, even if she couldn't cook worth shit. Charon handed her his knife and watched idly as she peeled back skin and scraped away fat to get at the flesh.

One of the brahmin snorted and stomped its heavy hooves. The noise drew Charon's attention. Both heads nostrils were wide, as if smelling something disturbing. It was staring into his helmet's lenses like it was trying to communicate.

"Settle down." He grumbled. "It's just blood. Be glad it isn't yours."

Look at him, talking to fucking animals. He thought he'd lost it when he caved and threw the ball for 101's dog. It had stared him into it, even when he told it to get lost, searching his face and reaching out with one paw on his leg as if to say 'please'. Manipulative little monster. Now the damned dog did it every time he sat down.

That smart-looking brahmin was still staring.

Charon's back prickled.

Yeah, he might be insane but he was going to take this seriously. Keeping 101 within arm's reach, he scanned the surrounding area. Every dark shadow in the rocks and fallen concrete had the potential to hide an enemy. Still his armor registered nothing but the cattle. It didn't add up and that brahmin certainly wasn't paying attention to him because he was more interesting than stuffing itself with scrubgrass. Uneasy, he tuned into the Outcast comm channel. If some of them were in the area, the armor would pick up chatter and relay it to the speaker in the helmet. Maybe they were in a firefight nearby and he just didn't hear it. Not much came through. Squawks and growlback, mostly. He wasn't close enough to a patrol for full reception.

A bullet pinging off a nearby rock caused him to drop.

Smart brahmin turned, picking up speed as it loped away. Taking the hint, the rest of the herd scattered. It caused a significant cover loss.

Shit.

"The fuck was that?" 101's exclamation was followed by a scramble for her own shotgun.

"Looks like we got company."

"Ya think?" 101 grouched.

He sprang up at a good clip, attempting to circle around where the bullet came from. A hail of gunfire hit his former position, mutilating the predator's corpse and causing 101 to plant herself face down in the dirt. Charon felt for a grenade on his belt. Good. He took it in hand.

"Heads up, assholes!" He shouted to draw attention, pulling the pin and tossing the frag in the approximate location of the shooters.

The explosion lit up the darkness with a plume of fire and caused a rain of splintered rock. In its wake he heard a few cries of pain. Angry snarls. Raiders. They'd probably been after the brahmin and hadn't even noticed them until he'd tagged the yao gui. It was a lesson in overconfidence. He should have let the beast take its meal and waited to see if that was the danger he'd sensed. Cursing himself, he charged their position and peppered the rockfall with shotgun fire.

"Fuckin Outcast cocksucker. Think you're so much better than the rest of us..." One man bellowed, raising a sledgehammer. Charon slammed the stock of his weapon into the Raider's nose, causing him to overbalance and crash into the jagged stone below, and fired on his buddy-- the one he'd blocked from shooting by playing John Henry. The kid with the assault rifle was gifted with a shiny new hole where his dick should be. Charon followed it with one to the face out of mercy.

He was thankful what Raiders knew about tactics could fit in a fucking teacup.

"Get the bastard!"

It's what the next casualty had tried to scream anyway. It was hard to do when her head was pulped mid-sentence. The big ghoul grinned behind his faceplate, taunting the others that hung back and tried to decide if they should fight him or run. "Whatsa matter? Can't stand the sight of your own blood?"

"Charon!"

It was a cry that caused him to pause, turn his head, because he hadn't figured on there being two threats. The bullets had only come from one direction. They'd only come from one fucking direction!

101 was trading punches with one of those bastards.

Where'd her piece go?

His employer's head snapped back like one of those nodder things she collected.

Rage boiled, his muscles burned and the thread of mercy he possessed snapped. Limbs exploded into spray made gray-green by the night and the filters in his helmet. Men and women screamed. Faces flashed before him. Weapons he swatted aside like bugs. His feet slid in the mess. He found himself laughing as the Raiders became so much hamburger splattering his armor. The sound bubbled up from the darkness where the Words reigned and echoed in his chest. Even though he could watch himself kill under their influence, he wasn't really participating. Even though a part of him screamed that he wanted those Raiders dead, he was so detached that it stirred him as much as taking a dump might. It was slaughter. It was good. Why should he bother to fight it?

The space between him and the last Raider was crossed almost in a blur. 101 had ventilated several before this fuck had beaten her down. He stepped on the dead as he passed, felt their skeletons snap under his boots. They counted four.

As he got closer time stretched out. Or it... slowed down. Charon saw she was at at her pack, yanking at the buckles and trying to get a weapon- any weapon. One goggle lens was a starburst. It flashed in the light of her Pip-boy as fury drove her on through the blows her assailant rained on her head and shoulders. The uneven white moon carved on her forehead was wrinkled by the intensity of her expression. One leg bent at a strange angle at the knee when the scum brought his foot down on it. She screamed. It was a distorted, horrible wail he almost didn't recognize as his name. That was followed by vomit.

The Raider was preparing to break the other leg but the Words rushed towards the big ghoul in a maelstrom of black and white. They demanded he obey and the rest was gone in a blast of static. Thunder crashed in his head and a growl worthy of a feral was torn from his throat.

Charon obeyed.

He registered using his shotgun as a bludgeon with vague acceptance. When it slipped from his slick hands, they took up his grisly work.

Thunder gradually transformed into the frantic thump of his heartbeat. The burning heat in his muscles fled. Charon came back to himself. By the tension in his legs and the press of uneven ground beneath them, he was kneeling. Sitting really, on his heels, and having a hard time catching his breath. The lenses on his helmet were obscured. His limbs were like jelly and performed about as well. He couldn't even wipe the muck off to see. There was no way to tell how far he'd gone in his frenzy... or what he'd done. He was trying to gulp in air but couldn't seem to get enough.

Charon wheezed.

Goddamn this smothering piece of shit. He was going to suffocate if he didn't get his helmet off. With supreme effort born of desperation, he ripped the helm from its catches and threw it. He didn't care where it went as long as it was gone.

That was better.

Blinking, he waited for his eyes to adjust. Once they had, and objects took on recognizable forms, he looked around.

Where had 101 gone?

He couldn't have harmed her. No. The contract forbid it. Not even he could go so crazy as to breach the contract. Charon should know. He'd tried to do it on purpose to a past employer.

She didn't run did she?

A bump at his left hand, as he tried to rise, made him stop cold.

101 stared up from beside him. Her battered face was coated with blood and she sprawled in the lumpy puddle made of shredded organs, splintered bone and gobbets of flesh that surrounded them both. Puke and gore spattered her Ranger's green. For a single terrifying moment, he thought she was dead.

Too slow. He'd been too slow. He'd failed.

Charon's throat threatened to close completely and he could feel the air being squeezed out of his chest.

The penalty for failure was...

She blinked behind her filth streaked goggles before her trembling fingers reached to pull them up. "...wow..."

Alive.

No alarm colored 101's features, only something that looked like reverence through the bruises. Quick as lightning it changed to joy. Her hands slipped in the remains of the dead Raider when she tried to get a firm grip on the earth. Whimpers marked her movements as she pushed herself into a sit, her knee still out of the socket.

Breath rushed into his lungs and he coughed at the sting.

Her hands gripped his shoulders. "That was amazing." She shook him as if for emphasis. "Fucking amazing!"

The cough turned into a laugh. A smile dusted his face despite his body complaining loudly about what it had just gone through. Charon flicked a piece of bone off her cheek with a gloved finger. "Got your caps worth, huh?" He jibed.

God, he was tired.


	3. Chapter 3

------

Chapter 3: Crazy Wolfgang

------

It was a beautiful day in the Capital Wasteland. The buzzards rode the updrafts lazily, the roads were relatively clear and the wind was cool though the sun beat down in its special, unrelenting way. Wolfgang felt invigorated. There would be many sales and he'd encounter vast amounts of unusual detritus. A man made his own fortune and his would be good today. He felt it as easily as he did the reigns in his hand. If only he had a radio he could listen to the sweet strains of Agatha's violin and make his bliss complete.

Agatha. His favorite subject besides the collection of fascinating garbage.

Delicious Agatha. Delicate Agatha. Dulcet siren of the scrub. His heart and body ached for her. His soul hungered. If only she would forget her bleak mourning and take his overtures as seriously as the ones her nimble fingers stroked from her glorious instrument. He would do nothing but worship his silvery angel of music and bring her the best prizes the wastes had to offer... Wolfgang sighed. He'd admitted it long ago, he was well in the woman's thrall and she only had to crook one of her elegant fingers to make him beg to do her bidding. Deny him though she might. His goddess was as cruel as she was beautiful.

"Wolfie, we got problems." The mercenary in his employ, Irene, had a banal way of intruding on his good mood with her version of reality. Though paranoid was fine if you were a mercenary, he supposed. It was what they were paid for besides the necessary evil of killing.

"What sort of problems might accost a humble purveyor of junk and the winsome companion in his lonely sojourn?" Wolfgang scoffed. "In short, what crap do I have that anyone could cart away in large enough supply to make killing me, or you, worth their trouble? The bullets would bring more in trade than my whole load."

Irene rubbed the bridge of her nose. "Look, dude, point your face that way and tell me that's not a brahmin closing in on us with one hump on its back and another hump walking along in front." She gestured.

Wolfgang followed the motion and quirked a brow. He required the use of his hand in shading his eyes to make out exactly what had caused Irene's great alarm. Indeed it did seem they had company on this dusty trek. There was no way to tell if they meant ill, but he didn't feel threatened by them. Perhaps another merchant had joined the merry brotherhood of commerce out of the Commons. His other hand rubbed the stubble on his chin thoughtfully. He only hoped they did not scavenge and re-tool the dubious leavings of the wasteland. If so, introductions could be rather messy and association impossible.

Still, first impressions were always the most important. He stepped out, arms wide, and gave his semi-official greeting.

"Hello, my friends!"

Just as the figure on the brahmin gave a stilted wave, Irene grabbed him out of nowhere and threw him to the ground. Unexpected and painful, his leather-clad elbows jarred against the pavement and his teeth snapped together almost on his tongue.

"It's a goddamn zombie! Shut your hole, get your motherfucking gun and hide behind the merchandise." She popped back up around his brahmin's flank, turning the beast, and held a bead on the two strangers. At it again, with paranoia in full display, she was grumbling about zombies and tricks. He wasn't quite sure what to make of it though that might have been due to the significant daze the mercenary had put him in. His mouth felt as if he'd tried to suck a baseball through a straw and followed that with crunching on a Nuka-Cola bottle. Instead of obeying Irene he got to his feet unsteadily.

"Wolfgang! What's going on? Is your policy to shoot valued customers now?"

The voice was familiar, though labored. He frowned, trying to place it, before sneaking a look over the necks of his brahmin. Silly Irene. There was nothing to be afraid of-- he would recognize the peculiar markings on this stranger no matter how swollen her features. It was the vault woman, of course. Despite her injuries and change of attire it could be no other. He came closer, a smile forming. As his eyes fell on the other figure he stopped. It was not the familiar Outcast seemingly wonderglued to her side. His helmet was missing and...

And... he was a ghoul?

The smile fled and he half-crouched between the brahmin's heads. It was more panic than any honest attempt at flight. His brahmin's eyes barely blinked. The animal was chewing cud with the kind of complacency that made Wolfgang feel it didn't care if he died. The vault woman's beast eyed him with unusual focus as though deciding if it should introduce him to a rather impressive length of black horns. This was not an ideal place to be caught. No indeed.

"Just give me the word, boss." Irene kept her rifle aimed between the ghoul's murky eyes. His wizened lips pulled back, displayed yellowed teeth in an expression that made the merchant's blood run cold. If a smile could be a threat, that was this expression. In all his dealings with the vault woman he'd never guessed her companion wasn't a renegade Outcast. He didn't... well... didn't act ghoul-like. Not like the ones that frequently accosted his caravan anyway. It was puzzling and more than a little disconcerting.

He was relieved when the monster's face became once again ambivalent.

"I wouldn't piss him off if I were you." The caution in the vault woman's voice was real.

Irene set her chin, obsidian eyes flashing. "Don't talk to me like you know me, bitch."

The ghoul responded with a low growl that shook Wolfgang's resolve like a bully after his bubblegum. It was infinitely worse than the smile. The choice might be deal or die, but since they hadn't attacked on sight the pair were probably not out to kill him. In fact, his dealings with them in the past had been nothing but delights-- they often had unusual curiosities and were more than willing to trade for more commonplace items like stimpaks. He stood. "Irene, your bravado is unnecessary. I do believe I know these people. There just hasn't been occasion for me to see the gentleman without his headgear and his unique countenance momentarily threw me into confusion."

"Gentleman?" Irene slowly lowered her weapon. "Wolfie, get some glasses. I don't see no gentleman."

Wolfgang rolled his eyes and instead he held out his hands again. "Isidore! Charon! Pardon my rudeness, but last we met you were in considerably better repair and did not yet possess this fine beast."

He pointed to their brahmin.

"We had some shit go down on a run for the Rangers." Isidore explained, gesturing to the obvious beating she'd taken. "Got sidetracked."

That's when the wall of stink hit him. At first he assumed it was the natural condition of Charon, being a ghoul, to smell of death and rot when released from his preserving armor. The unfortunate souls who often attacked the caravan certainly did not scent of perfume. However as he continued to judge the wind and the direction, he realized that the horror inducing stench was emanating from the vault woman. It was extremely difficult to maintain a straight face when all he wished to do was cover his nose and run.

"You going to Megaton?" Isidore asked. She drooped on her perch, prompting the ghoul to fix his attention on her.

"... actually we are headed that way." Wolfgang replied while his eyes watered. He tried not to be obvious about blinking the moisture from his lashes. If used for the purposes of torture, he was entirely certain he would tell the possessor of that mind-numbing odor anything they wished to know if only to make them depart with haste from his personal space and far away from his considerable cache of crap.

The big ghoul nodded, looking back to him when Isidore was too unsteady to reply. "Good. We will follow you." Charon's sepulchral voice, unfiltered for the first time since he encountered him, made the hair on the back of Wolfgang's neck stand up. It also brooked no argument.

Wolfgang kicked himself for being just a shade too crazy. Well, there went his profits. Between the pervasive stink wafting off the vault woman and her companion being a ghoul, he'd just lost every sale between here and Megaton. Woe is the plight of an honest tradesman. Not that he disliked them. No. Isidore was quite charming and he would not hesitate to share a cup of coffee with her, if circumstances permitted and she were bathed in Abraxo prior. Charon... well he was menacing before and now he frightened Wolfgang down to his very last cell. The ghoul had never given him a reason to distrust his good will and had been quite skilled at turning back Super Mutants when they first met outside Rivet City, but he was a ghoul nonetheless. They sometimes lost their minds and decided that humans were food. It was the reason Wolfgang could never bring himself to visit Underworld... or Meresti for that matter.

Ghouls... Vampires... Cannibals... they were all the same.

Alan of the Family was on the gate now at Arefu after dark. It was the primary reason Wolfgang always attempted to catch that stop during daylight hours. Alan was frightening in a way Charon was not. The monster was not on full display, easily seen and prepared for. He'd had almost a full hour's conversation with the man before he'd figured out who... what he was. The beast inside him flickered behind strange colorless eyes. His taint displayed itself in sharp, predatory movements and unusually pointy teeth. It was also in that oozing, slinking charisma he'd worked on Irene and the casual strength that was at least double a normal man's. Before Alan, he sensed every stray thought he had was on display and that the vampire approved of none of them. It made Wolfgang feel like a bug. There was no reason to court violence or ill-will. Alan, for all his interest in Irene, did not like him and so he did not intend to interact with the man again. Crazy Wolfgang was crazy, could be accused of being eccentric and perhaps more insane than was allowable, but he was not that crazy. Arefu was a daylight trip and Underworld, Meresti and the other dens of genetic accidents around the Wasteland were strictly no-go destinations.

There were some prejudices in place for a good reason and he could not be expected to do more. It was bad enough he had to deal with slavers.

"Wolfie, it's hot and I know I'm dark, but I burn too. Can we get moving?" Irene prompted.

Realizing he was gawking like a rube, he cleared his throat and approached Isidore. "Might you need anything before we begin? As you know I offer a wide variety of exotic junk unlike any you might find at stationary stores in towns and settlements far and wide within our Wasteland..."

Isidore licked her cracked lips. "Knee's pretty shot. I'd like to immobilize it. Got a brace?"

"Ahhh... Indeed. Crazy Wolfgang has them in several sizes." Wolfgang dug for a tape measure in his pockets. "If you'll tell me if the right or left is afflicted I can fit one with a minimum of fuss."

The vault woman reached for her right leg and nearly toppled from her seat. She would have had she not grabbed the improvised halter around her brahmin. Entirely made of leather belts Wolfgang noted. The studded ones looked torn from Raider garb.

"Charon?"

"Yes?" He looked toward Isidore as if her words were the only thing that concerned him on earth.

"Please help me get the plates loose."

"As you wish." And without complaint, or even noticing the odor, he walked to her side and helped her slide the ceramic plating out of the suit's right leg with care. Her hands shook and once or twice she had to grab Charon's shoulder to keep from tipping off the brahmin.

"If I puke on you, I'm apologizing in advance, Charon-- Wolfgang." Isidore cautioned them both.

Wolfgang winced but continued forward to the business of measuring. "I'm entirely sure it will wash off, Isidore, and meanwhile I will be free of any animal or man unable to withstand the disharmonious aura it grants." Charon did not move away, causing Wolfgang to stand elbow to armored stomach with the huge ghoul while he measured. It was unfortunate to admit but the helmet changed the entire way he perceived the situation. Originally he felt that the renegade Outcast was simply a devoted employee, an admirable man if not one given to conversation. Now it was hard to imagine Isidore as anything but a shrewd wrangler of monsters who kept this one on a short leash for a reason. She had talked animatedly with him in the past, but it was rare the brute answered with more than a grunt or a gesture. She interpreted these with more insight than a casual observer like himself. Perhaps it was just as well.

He looked up at her, tucking his tape away. "I have one in just the size you need. Would you like to trade for it or do you perhaps wish our transaction to be in caps?"

"I'm sitting on our equipment and I'm not getting up short of a shotgun enema or a rabid deathclaw, so it's caps. How much do you want?" Isidore asked.

Charon produced a bag from a pouch on his belt.

Wolfgang thought a moment, scrolling through his mental list of prices. "Ten should suffice quite well."

Isidore nodded and the ghoul counted the caps out, giving them to the eccentric merchant without so much as a word.

Applying the brace proved unpleasant, miasmic stink notwithstanding. The vault woman wept and fought spasms that threatened to redecorate him with whatever it was she ate last. The ghoul was breathing down his neck and becoming more tense with each passing minute. He didn't have to be rushed to feel rushed with that huge wall of monster at his side, glaring with eyes that looked like steel knives behind well-lit curtains. It made his hands sweat. He couldn't get the straps through the buckles without a good deal of thinking of Agatha's sweet face, smiling at him.

Agatha, my darling, why must you be so heartless?

"I can still shoot him, you know." His mercenary commented in a blithe and innocent way.

Wolfgang's hands froze. He thanked Saint Monica and anyone else who might be listening to his most secret thoughts that the vault woman was too distracted by pain to respond and Charon too absorbed by her suffering. He did not feel the not-so-lone wanderer would take well to having her companion threatened. He seemed supremely useful and dedicated. In the same situation Wolfgang himself would react badly to his mercenary being taunted in such a manner. "That is not helpful in any way or form, Irene."

Finishing the last binding he stepped back and wiped at the cold sweat on his brow. Isidore was leaning heavily on Charon and he gave considerable effort into to seating her again- as if neither merchant nor mercenary were there.

Irene laughed at her employer's discomfort. "But it's true."

He put his hands on his hips and gave her the hardest look he could muster. It was still not very convincing and even though he knew it, he marshaled his willpower anyway. "You know, you could be replaced by a Protectron, my dear."

His mercenary snorted. "You'd miss me."

Wolfgang sighed. Too true. Robots made for poor conversation and required more maintenance than he himself was capable of. Plus his requirements for mercenary companionship were strict and as peculiar as he had crafted himself to be. To replace her with interview would mean loss of revenue until such was completed and perhaps the evaporation of chances to visit his beautiful Agatha for want of protection against the beasts of the wasteland. "And now, our business concluded, let us be off towards the western horizon and Megaton." He smiled at Isidore and Charon in turn, then went to grasp the reigns of his brahmin and turn the beast around. "Or, to be simple: That way." He gestured.

The company was uncomfortable once they were underway, but Isidore was downwind so he no longer felt the urge to plug his nose with his fingers. Wolfgang was just unused to being quiet so long and he felt like he was going to explode. He needed to speak, even if it was to the brahmin or Irene or... or someone. God. Saint Monica. Anyone. It wasn't as if he hadn't tried other diversions but daydreaming about Agatha could only go so far without making his pants embarrassingly tight. Charon offered little in the way of distraction. It was awkward to talk to him not because of his silence but because he radiated an intense desire not to be talked to. He merely walked alongside Wolfgang and cast occasional glances back at Isidore, as any concerned employee should. By comparison Irene had taken a liking to the likable but odoriferous former vault dweller and was paying little attention to her job whilst engaging in conversation.

The scenery was quiet, dull and Wolfgang could not help but listen in.

"...Raiders don't know the meaning of the words 'fuck off'." Isidore replied. "Charon educated them. Ripped one limb from limb and beat the rest of the torso to death with the pieces." A chuckle followed that was entirely too merry for the scene she'd just related.

Irene cackled. "You're bent. You know that?"

"Yeah. It's come to my attention." There was a pause. "So what about you? Haven't seen you before. Mendoza kick the bucket?"

"Oh, the guy that... no... Dozer is back at Rivet City. Decided he'd rather be all safe and comfortable on his boat than out here with Crazy Wolfgang." Irene laughed. "Man, what a pussy. Ain't shit without his missiles, let me tell you."

"Ahh, yes. Shall I tell you the sad tale of my former compatriot, Mendoza? Projectile dysfunction in the face of great excitement." Wolfgang clucked. "Happens to the best of us now and then..."


	4. Chapter 4

-----

Chapter 4: Jericho

-----

"SHIT!" Jericho pressed his back flat and felt the explosion reverberate through the heavy aluminum and steel walls of Megaton. What a fucking time for his antique to jam. Piece of Chinese crap. He'd just serviced the damn thing last week.

Of course, it could have been worse. He had the kid to thank for the plate that kept his face and chest from being shredded by the scrap in that pipe bomb. As it stood, he'd just be pulling shards out of his gear with pliers after this was over. If it was over.

Those Springvale assclowns had been at it all fucking day since just before sunup. He'd never seen this many Raiders attack a city, not even when he was a dumb kid following that psycho Preacher around. What the fuck did they want anyway? Did Bertha not being ready to pop for the first time since she dumped in the goddamn crater signal a feeding frenzy or some shit? Did they want revenge for what Simms had done to that dickcheese Boppo?

When he heard Moira whistle from the gate, he moved towards the rocks where her walking talking action dildo was picking off Raiders with a hand laser like it was one of his attachments. That broad was fucked in the head, humping robots and chattering all the time like a squirrel on jet, but nobody in their right mind got in the way of her Rock-It Launcher. Bad enough to die fighting piss ass Raiders. Worse to die impaled from behind by a teddy bear going in excess of 500 mph.

You'd have to be fucking mental to even come up with that weapon.

She got that asshole with the pipe bombs too. Man had a toy Nuka Truck driven into his liver and rolled down the hill towards the merchant's rest in front of the gate. What made it even better, is that the stupid shit dug it out. Blood sprayed everywhere and the look on the Raider's face just as he died? Hilarious. It was a shame the HUD didn't have instant replay.

There were times when he loved that crazy bitch.

"Dil, you got another weapon? Mine's fucked."

The android passed over the hunting rifle at his feet without even otherwise acknowledging Jericho.

"Thanks, tin man." Jericho dropped his assault rifle and started to ease back down to his former position. "Tell Moira, she wants to ride me, anytime, I'll give her a first class ticket."

Her android gave him a withering look and went back to shooting.

"What's wrong, Dil? Afraid she might not come back for you if she got some real meat in her?"

With more emotion than he'd credit a machine, the android merc looked into Jericho's helm lenses and snarled. "My name is Darwin. DARWIN! And why don't you go fuck yourself in the ass with a mine and save us all the trouble."

Jericho laughed. So, he was chatty. Fuck em all if they weren't having a good time too. It was a hell of a lot better than sitting on his ass in Moriar... Gob's and doing jack shi...

He never even saw the missile. Oh, he figured it out, sure as shit, afterward. When the maroon and black stars cleared and he was staring up at the sky unobstructed because the front of his helmet was gone, sheared off somehow within scant millimeters of his face. The sun was fucking bright and his ears felt like he had ten tons of water pumped in his head. Concussions were about as fun as having your balls in a vise. He righted himself and watched the horizon spin. The shock was keeping him from feeling what were probably parts of his leather undersuit burned into his skin.

Darwin was there in an instant, dragging him like he was no heavier than a Lamplighter, swearing all the while about why the fuck did the crazy old bastard take him so seriously. He couldn't reply right then, not even when the android banged his head into the gate trying to drag Jericho through the narrow opening left for defenders. Hell, he wanted to laugh though. If the inside of his lungs hadn't felt like someone had stuffed plastic wrappers down his throat, he would have. Served that cocky mechanical knuckle-nuts right. Talking shit back to him like he was somebody.

Over his sputtering comm came a sloe voice. "Lover? You alright?"

Jericho coughed and tasted blood in the back of his throat.

"Lover?"

He sounded like he'd given a blowjob to a frog and contracted warts on his vocal chords when he finally cleared enough phlegm to reply. "Clover, if you don't get off my channel and start swinging that shiskebab, I'm going to wear your ass out when this is over with."

"Oooo, sounds like fun... we can do that anyway..."

"Yeah, whatever." Clover was about as subtle as a face-full of nailboard. Most of the time it was great. Right now he wanted to throttle her. He was too fucking old for this shit. As fun as it was, all out war was a young man's pastime. He pulled off a gauntlet and put a hand to his exposed skin, feeling for damage beyond burns and cuts. Christ. His nerve endings were starting to wake up. His face felt like he'd been sandblasted.

"AMMO!" Stockholm shouted from his nest. "HARDEN, AMMO!"

Through his grimy fingers, he watched the Sheriff's kid jump across the roof of his dad's shack with bandoleers weighing him down. Jericho found himself holding his breath until Harden's feet hit the sniper's catwalk. That boy was going to get himself killed thinking he was some kinda fucking flying rat...

"Hey, asshole, Moira's--"

Jericho coughed and rubbed away the spittle from his mouth. It felt like Clover was sitting on his chest. "Fuck you want, Dil?"

Darwin scowled. "You want to be left lying in the street, fine. That's your fucking business." He made a scrubbing motion. "I wash my hands of you." He looked to Moira.  
"Watch yourself."

"Why? All the fighting is out there. Jericho's perfectly safe..."

The android made a frustrated sound and stalked to the thin opening in the gate and drew his pistol, preparing to jump back out in the fray like some kind of hero. Darwin had as much concern for his own life as Weld or Steel sometimes. It just went to show, robots were morons.

Moira stomped her foot. "Ohhh...he never listens to me." Her arms were crossed and her lip stuck out.

What was she gonna do next? Fucking cry?

"Must make screwing him interesting."

Moira's flush started with her neck and climbed up to her cheeks rapidly. "B-bu... he... I... I'll just go get Doc Church..."

"You do that, sweetcheeks." Jericho leered as best he could manage. "Ol' Jericho will be right here when you get back."

Brown was a hoot. Half the fun of heckling her was watching her turn fifty different shades of red. Then there was the stammer. Backing away like he was a loaded bomb and then running: priceless. Safe. Yeah. Sure, Moira. Whatever helped her sleep at night. Well, besides robowang.

Damn thing probably vibrated...

He coughed and felt like the plastic wrap had turned to bayonets. Jericho put a hand to his chest. His fingers looked for scrap that had actually penetrated. There wasn't any to find, most of it was loose and would come out with a few tugs, but the armor was awfully damned hot for some reason.

"How bad is it out there?"

Jericho looked up to find the resident leper kneeling next to him. He didn't dislike the guy. From what he'd gotten out of him with whisky, he was a ruined paladin. The BOS kicked him out for something he wouldn't mention. Wouldn't even lift a fucking gun anymore. Wouldn't do much of anything but stare into space like he'd lost his balls somewhere and talk about how thirsty he was-- unless he was drunk. Micky was thirsty for something, but Jericho doubted he needed water. Or booze, really. Sad shit, considering that his recollections were pretty vivid, and entertaining, when he was wasted. In Jericho's heyday, they'd have probably been facing each other over gun-barrels and somebody would have done some dying. Now they sat at the gate on weekends, getting hammered and talking about the bad old days. He didn't know who needed the kick in the ass worse.

"Ugly, Micky." He snorted, clearing more phlegm. "Like Clover on the rag ugly."

Micky shook his head and put out a bandaged, scabby hand. "Arm up?"

"Yeah, sure. Moira probably stopped to powder her fucking nose."

He shouldered Jericho's weight while the old Raider found his legs. It was fucking embarrassing. His knees wobbled and his ankles felt like they were made out of rubber. He would have taken Micky down with him if the BOS antique hadn't stood firm. Some life. He'd have shot the bastard who predicted this is the way he'd spend his retirement.

A train whistle droned- then gave two sharp blats.

What the hell? That was a railway rifle. Raiders usually didn't have the smarts to assemble the things. They were steam powered. Broke easy too. It could only mean some kinda damn cavalry had showed up. He had to see!

"Mick, think we can make it out the gate?"

"If you can, I can."

"Then why the fuck we standing here with our thumbs up each other's asses, eh?"

"...Probably because it's more comfortable than having rippers up there."

He cracked a joke... Goddamn, Micky cracked a joke! HA! And Church said drinking was bad for him. Fuck that noise. He ruffled the old BOS man's sweat-stiffened white hair and grinned.

Micky helped him take that first step. After that, they made slow progress while the train sounds got closer and more frequent. That was part of the beauty of the piece. Stealth was impossible and the low whistle got in an enemy's head. Made them dread the toots that meant railspikes were coming their way.

Squeezing out of the gate revealed that the shit had hit the fan and ended up splattered all over Springvale. The two old soldiers crouched behind a pile of bodies, more or less hidden. Sure, the things didn't smell that great but Jericho was pretty sure half of what he was smelling was burned nose-hair. Micky made a face when Jericho leaned on a corpse. He was ignoring the gore and mess seeping down his armor from the pile. Micky was a trip. For a guy covered in open sores and blisters, he sure could be squeamish about some bizarre shit.

Simms was closest. He looked like a fucking tool, cowboy hat and all, screaming about yahoos and flanked by his robot deputies. Sure, they were killing shit left and right, but it didn't make him inspiring while they did it. No way. Darwin had more finesse. The android could make a grown man crap his pants at thirty paces without even touching a weapon. Best Lucas could hope for is that his quarry was so busy crapping their pants laughing at him he could kill them while they were distracted. It'd worked on that assmunch Boppo, but how many times could you be that lucky?

The whistle sounded again and he was able to spot who had the rail-rifle. For a moment, the immense weight on his chest lifted. Where her pet corpse was, she was. The vault kid was here.

She was mean the day she came in, eyes narrowed and clutching that gun, her vault suit streaked with blood and filth. It's why he'd talked to her at all-- told her to get herself a real weapon and quick before the wastes came knocking with something bigger and badder than she thought she was. Then he'd seen her outdraw Burke that morning he tried to get the drop on Lucas. The kid ratted him out for trying the detonate Bertha and when he wouldn't play nice with the Sheriff, BLAM. No expression, just that detachment he loved to see on a woman's face after she killed. It had been beautiful. Enough for him to lay down some caps for Nova to suck him off afterward.

He'd imagined those eyes looking up at him as she worked. Cold eyes, like the dust clouds that came in the fall, when the horizon turned a sickly greenish rust color before going completely black.

Those Raiders better say their fucking prayers.

That enormous rotting bastard spiked a skank to the gatepost, just feet from Jericho. Her body had flown like a Super Mutant clubbed it and hit the damn gate like a gong. This was another moment when he wished someone had a working camera. She quivered with the last throws of life, trying to pull herself free, and the old Raider couldn't contain a whoop of excitement.

"Kill those fuckmonkeys! Yeah!" Jericho's cheer cost him. He was reduced to coughing and the inside of his head thrummed to the sounds of death around him. The edges of his vision turned gray.

Micky shook him. "Jericho?"

"I'm fine." He ground out. It took more than a pipe bomb and a fucking missile to put Jericho out of commission. Making a big show of putting his gauntlet back on, he realized how cold his fingers were. They shook. When the spasms finally passed he was drawn again into the action.

Lucas had moved out of sight, but he could watch Clover's fiery arcs past a boulder. Why the kid had brought her to him, Jericho'd never guess. Oh, he knew what she'd done in Paradise Falls. The kid had freed the caged mooks and slaughtered everything else that moved. Except for Clover. She hadn't freed her, just taken off the collar and handed her over with some shit about him being her new body. At first, he'd been too horny to care why. Now he wondered. Clover'd start talking about her dead pimp sometimes, that slick wad Eulogy, only she talked about him like he was still alive. When he corrected her she'd give him this look like she'd actually forgotten. Other times, when she was drowsy, she'd start talking about what she'd done before she was a slave. Most of it wasn't in complete sentences. She'd been some kind of records keeper somewhere-- kept trying to tell him these whacked out stories she'd read, but couldn't completely remember. Green knights, the angel of death, some dumbfuck that robbed the rich and gave to the poor; she had a story for everything. Sometimes it made his skin crawl because it brought back memories of Preacher going on for hours. Clover though... she didn't sound like she was trying to convince anyone. She was more talking to herself. And yeah, he might be going soft in his old age, because he'd listen. Whatever she was rambling about... he'd listen.

Jericho's head drooped for a second and he was face to face with one of the dead Raiders. The corpse's expression, fixed and staring, was almost halfway between accusation and horror. He'd killed this one. Nearly cut him in half with the assault rifle before the thing jammed. Wasn't much older than Harden, really. Some dumb kid...

Seeing the only place those thoughts could go, he grimaced. It hurt his face. His skull weighed a ton and his neck was getting wobbly. Something was wrong... maybe...

Jericho, man, get a fucking grip.

The train whistle made him look back. It was getting closer again and the kid's favorite ghoul popped over the rocks. After a few minutes of watching Charon cut a path through the stragglers, all he could focus on was what was probably going on in that vault kid's house. That corpse-faced motherfucker bending that sweet little thing over and giving it to her hard and dirty. Probably spanking her ass too. Nice and red. And her taking it, all of it, like the flush-faced moaning little whore he always knew she was underneath all that righteousness and iron. It had to be. The creep usually hovered over her like some kinda goddamn vulture-- giving the evil eye to anyone that so much as glanced at her. Sure, she still talked to him and passed him smokes, asked after Clover, but that ugly fucker was always at her shoulder, watching. Glowering. Like she was his goddamn exclusive property and who did old Jericho think he was.

Bodyguard his ass. He knew when he was being given the two steps towards the door. Besides, that kid needed a bodyguard like he needed another hole in his head. Oh, she might have Simms fooled but it didn't change the fact Jericho knew what was really going on. Bad knew bad. There was no way she could be that good and associate with the people she did. Men like him and that corpse. Nah. Good was fucking oblivious. Like Brown. That's how it managed to stay good. Everyone else was on the road to hell-- fast or slow, didn't matter.

Wait...

Jericho frowned, ignoring the stinging sensation that accompanied it.

He hadn't seen the kid at all. Where was she? In pursuit?

"C'mon." Micky pulled him towards the gate. "I think we've had enough excitement. Let the mercs earn their caps."

Jericho allowed himself be maneuvered into town. It seemed like, instead of being heavy, his head was now floating somewhere next to him. He kept expecting to see himself from the outside. He wondered, distantly, if he looked as fucked up as he felt. Speaking of which, where was Brown? Wasn't she going to go get the doctor? Church was nowhere to be seen. He was probably giving Moira some shit about being a noncom or something. She was such a prole, he'd probably have her argued into doing it hers...

Jericho's vision blurred and swam. Opaque gray mist surrounded him.

Smoke? Where was smoke coming from? If he was on fucking fire, whoever had the bad aim would be getting an asswhipping later.

He waved in front of him but the haze didn't clear.

Water. He had to get to the water before he burned alive...

"What's wrong?" Jericho was briefly aware of Mickey's florid face hovering near his cheek before the ground rushed up to meet him.


	5. Chapter 5

------

Chapter 5: Gob

------

The usual drunkies were wandering in now that they weren't cowering under their beds like kids. It gave him a subtle feeling of satisfaction. Town under attack and where was he? Right behind his bar where he was supposed to be. Bunch of shitheads. They could beat on him, while Moriarty was still there to nod and smile, but still feel good about themselves when they fled the Raiders. Now they didn't even have that. They couldn't run from the fact that they were the lowest rung on the food chain.

And damn it felt good to watch them fall off the barstools, one by one, helpless and sloshed stupid.

Sure, they could talk and talk about defending the town, but when it came down to it there was a very short list of people who'd actually go out and kick ass in the name of Megaton. Even someone like Jericho would get out in the thick of things if it involved his home and his stuff. A practical guy, the foul tempered ex-raider. Jericho didn't have anything to prove. He'd never even bothered to slap Gob when Colin offered the 'pleasure' for some imagined slight or other. Jericho didn't take kindly to people starting shit around him. He was retired and that was the whole of it.

The town hated him but Gob made sure Jericho drank for free. People who'd been at least human to Nova and him when everyone else treated them like dirt were etched into the ghoul's memory. It's why Rory was usually at the cleaning and not tending bar. Perks were sometimes forgotten in his haste to do his job correctly. It wasn't his fault. His brain was still a bit scrambled from the Box.

The door swung wide and a dusty figure stepped into the saloon. "Hello, my friends! I have faced perils untold to once again stand in your company." He gave a brief bow. "In other words, I'm pooped and there's a barstool right there with my name on it."

"Oh...ssyou." One of the customers blearily registered the merchant's face. "Hey... talk about your crap... 'salways funny.."

Wolfgang ignored him and walked to perch on the stool closest to the radio. "Proprietor, might I change stations on your set briefly?"

The ghoul contemplated this for a second. When he bothered to come in, the crazy drifter often asked for the same thing. Listening to some kind of fiddle music like it was jet or something. Gob took stock of the patrons. Finding no friendly faces among those gathered he came to a decision. Fuck them. "Go for it, just don't break the radio."

"Mine has been in for repairs at Rivet City for some time now. It's most irritating. Not an inconvenience I would wish on another..." Wolfgang prattled on as he switched stations.

The sad strains of a lone violin soon filled the bar. Wolfgang's face was close to rapture and his hand bobbed gently in time to the music. Gob had to admit there was something almost spiritual about the feeling it stirred.

Before Moriarty had gotten his just desserts the tune might have made him think of how far away freedom was. Now it reminded him of his mother. Mail was infrequent and depended on Izzy going out Underworld way. If only there were still telephones... or an honest-to-god post office. Keeping people in touch had to be part of the good fight somewhere. It was so hard not to want to visit if the letters were too few and slow in coming. Carol said not to but sometimes...

Gob didn't register the words the elderly woman on the radio had said until after the merchant shrieked and slammed forehead first into the counter. Rory jumped as if he'd been shot. He dropped his mop and backed away with wide terror-stricken eyes. The former slave's face had gone wax-white under his sandy facial hair. Gob didn't chastise him. Hell, sometimes he thought Colin was going to walk through the door and beat him to death for having the gall to repaint the sign.

Even though the patrons complained and threatened Wolfgang, Gob advised them to shut up with a gesture.

"...Crow... my... love?" From the merchant's tone of voice, muffled though it was as he repeated the dedication, his world had just ended.

Gob reached across and put a hand on his shoulder. "Hey..."

Nova leaned over the railing on the second floor, moderately clean sheets still over her arm. She'd taken to being the innkeeper full-time like a radroach to garbage. "Gob? Honey, what happened? Someone explode or are the Raiders back for seconds?"

Gob looked up at her beautiful worried face and he felt his chest swell. "Nah. Broken heart." He patted the weeping merchant's shoulder. "His girl just gave him the brush-off over the radio."

A few of the bar patrons muttered unkind things that caused Wolfgang to sob audibly.

She sucked in a breath through her amber stained teeth and clicked her tongue. "Oooo... that's cold." She didn't offer more. Now that she had a choice whom she comforted, Gob noticed she'd become very picky. Nova disappeared back into the room she'd been preparing.

As Gob watched her retreat he felt a stab of guilt. Here he was bedding the most attractive woman in town, him being a ghoul on top of that, and some good-looking smoothskin just got a long-distance kick in the nuts by what sounded like somebody's grannie.

"I want to die." Wolfgang whimpered.

"Don't talk like that..." Gob insisted. He pulled a clean rag from a box beside the bar and pushed it towards the merchant. He was, what, near twice the man's age and knew the kinda hurt he was going through. For every failed romance with the Jeanettes or Agathas of the world, there was someone like Nova. "There's other women out there."

It was taken, disappearing under Wolfgang's dark fringe. A nose was blown. "Not like Agatha." Wolfgang's hands appeared from underneath his face and buried in his hair.

He looked like hell. Sure, Gob wasn't really one to talk, but the crazy merchant was kneading his scalp like a deathclaw at a brahmin. Maybe he was going to pull his hair out by the fistful. The ghoul wasn't sure. What he did know is that cleaning blood off his counter and floor was more expensive than a free drink. Abraxo didn't exactly grow on trees but there was always some asshole brewing hooch somewhere. All he had to do was slap the appropriate labels...

Gob shook his head, realizing what he'd been thinking. Some of mom's business sense must've finally rubbed off on him. It was about time. After he switched stations to something less likely to make the merchant suicidal, he poured the despondent man a scotch and added a couple fingers of Nuka Cola.

"Wolfgang."

The merchant looked up, loosening his fingers. "Wha?"

"Drink. On the house."

He took the glass and lifted his head just enough to slurp it. A shudder passed through him and he spent several long minutes just breathing. Gob watched Wolfgang stew and nurse his pain. He'd never held with drinking himself, which he figured was a funny thing for a bartender to admit, but he could see it sometimes did help a few of his customers more than it hurt them.

"You, sir, are a gentleman and a saint." Wolfgang's voice was just above a whisper.

Gob put a hand on the one the merchant held the glass with. "It'll get better. Trust me." Where had that come from? Last year he couldn't have imagined using those words.

A patron grabbed his sleeve. "Hey, 'nother beer over here."

"Keep your pants on. You're gonna get just as drunk no matter how fast I get the brew to you." Gob replied, with one final squeeze of Wolfgang's hand.

The ghoul smiled at his employee as he went about taking caps from the patrons and filling drink orders. Rory gave a wobbly smile in response and started back to work with his mop. The man's uncertain expression slowly became one of contentment. He'd been that guy when Moriarty first bought him. Gob had an aluminum bat behind the counter that said any slaver that came looking for Rory wasn't leaving with their brains in the same place.

More regulars entered, followed by a tall dark woman with a brightly dyed bandana around her throat. He recognized the tie but couldn't place her. Mercenary. She looked around after staring at him hard twice. It was clear she was looking for someone else and it rubbed him the wrong way.

"Can I help you?" He prompted.

"Yeah. Colin around?"

Gob snorted, an odd sound given he was missing many of the membranes that made the noise in a regular human. "Here and there. I think Moira may have used him for fertilizer after Izzy shoved a grenade up his ass. Fitting end for that piece of shit."

The woman's mouth made a small 'o'. "Well... uh... uh..."

Wolfgang glanced over his shoulder with a red-rimmed eye. "Spit it out, Irene. You look silly when you stammer."

Irene's eyebrows climbed up towards her hairline and she focused back on the bartender. "Your town Doc ran out of Med-X, zombie. He asked me to bring caps down here for some booze."

Gob winced at her casually tossed insult. "Yeah, sure, smoothskin. Keep your boss from offing himself and I'll take the liquid courage to Church." He must not be too concerned if he sent a merc instead of a citizen.

"Offing himself?" She looked back at the merchant.

Wolfgang offered nothing by way of comfort or reply. Maybe he was disgusted at her behavior. Gob didn't have a clue and didn't care. He left her to an uncomfortable silence.

A crate of whisky from the back took less time to grab than he'd wished for. It balanced on his hip easily, where a normal man might take two hands to heft it. Gob didn't even break a sweat. It might have helped his mood if he had. He was still sort of angry when he stuck his hand in Irene's face for the bag of caps. She hesitated, as if she didn't want to touch his bare skin, and he growled a bit under his breath. Irene deposited the money on the crate like it burned her.

Gob looked towards Rory. "Get on the bar and keep everyone happy so long as they have caps to pay for what they order." He pointed at Wolfgang. "He drinks no charge today."

The big man nodded. "Yes.. mas... sir... uh... Gob."

"Alright. And remember you can talk to the customers. They're not going to bite you and neither am I." The ghoul looked up and to his right towards the promenade. "Nova!"

She poked his shoulder from slightly behind and made him jump. When he turned, there was a mischievous glint to her eyes. "Gobbie?"

She'd slunk down the stairs, cat quiet, and managed to slip up behind him. It's how they met in the late hours before Colin's death. A goofy grin stretched across his face. He could feel it tug at the muscles and dry skin.

"...since you're done with the linens, think you could give Rory a hand?"

"Mmm... I can manage that." She gave him a kiss that made his brain muzzy before turning to usher the hesitant ex-slave behind the bar. Her mouth still tasted of jet, a kind of sickly sweet flavor, but he noted that it hadn't grown any stronger since her break this morning. He watched her for a moment with a half-smile and ignored the patrons various gagging noises.

When the ghoul turned back towards the front door, he found Irene's face pulled into a mortified expression. Good. Served her right. Let her imagine what else Nova might get up to with those lips of hers when they were in private. He was a busy man and had a delivery to make.

The town had withstood the attack well, considering that it was built out of hollow aircraft and castoff scaffolding for the most part. A few things would need to be bolted back together and repainted but on the whole the Raiders seemed to have come at them more with numbers than heavy weapons this time around.

Confessor Cromwell raised his hands in blessing as he passed the bomb pool.

"Kind Son of Atom, may His glow be upon you in all that you do."

Gob nodded. The old man was a lunatic, but he'd never done anything bad to him. "Uh... you too."

"Forever and ever, until we have all been divided in His burning glory." Cromwell responded with a gentle, warm smile.

Gob had never figured out how a human could stand in irradiated water for days on end and not die or turn into a ghoul... but he was a nice guy. He didn't hurt anyone and...

My god.

The deck around Doc Church's office was crammed with people, he couldn't even keep track of them all. Everyone seemed to have gotten banged up in some manner or other. Had he not been sidetracked by his own issues he could have been here faster. Who cared what some loud-mouthed merc thought? He clutched the whisky to his hip, feeling the crate dig in, and ran up the ramp.

Opening the door to the office produced a brief flash of Church working on someone. There were sheets tacked up so the identity of the patient was a mystery. "GET HIM OUT OF HERE!" the doctor snapped.

Moira pushed him gently out the door. "I'm sorry Gob, but he really does need a mostly sterile environment." She smiled as she took the crate from his unprotesting fingers. "But this will go a long way to helping us." She tried to give him back the bag of caps. "You almost forgot your money."

"Nah. No charge, Moira. Couldn't very well have the saloon if there wasn't a town. Give that back to Doc Church."

She flashed a dazzling grin. "You're such a peach, Gob." She disappeared back into the office, closing the door in his face. Unsure of what he should do now, he looked around.

"Hi, Gob."

Dirty blue hair stuck out at odd angles and framed her perpetually burned face. She was waving from the long lawn chair someone had propped her foot up on.

"Izzy, what happened?" He meant her leg, but as the barman approached a hideous smell rolled over him. He coughed while his eyes watered. "Geeze. Yao Gui hike up and mistake you for a tree?"

Isidore raised an arm and took an exaggerated sniff. "I have no clue what you're talking about." She looked over Gob's shoulder. "Do I stink?"

Her bodyguard was approaching. His stomach tightened. He knew Charon better than she did. A living extension of his employer's will, despite whatever he might feel himself; Charon was batshit with a capital "B". Izzy had no idea what she'd gotten herself into by buying his paper. Gob wasn't saying the man was evil. It wasn't the killing itself. Fuck that. If anyone deserved to have their face blown off by a seven-foot-spare brainwashed nutcase, it was Ahzrukhal. But Charon had reported it as if he felt Gob had ordered him to do it. He hadn't even blinked. The murder was nothing to him. Gob had heard about some of the things that'd been done to Charon in private to impress customers or his former employer's dubious circle of 'friends'. It'd seemed far-fetched that Ahzrukhal could be so vile before Gob had been abducted and sold himself --but now, and with Charon's lack of human feeling apparent under an employer Gob was sure would never tell him to shut up, now those horrible stories seemed all too true. Smoothskin prostitutes and all. Ahzrukhal could have ordered him and Charon would have done it.

He looked at Isidore for a long moment before replying. His expression never changed and his voice was grave. "... I've smelled worse."

Gob raised a skinless brow at the ruddy ghoul. "I never, ever want to be within a mile what you consider worse." He slashed the air between them with his palm. "Ever."

Charon made a noise of assent as he walked up the gangway but Isidore laughed. "We're just messing with you. Oh, hey..." She started to get up. "You've got mail. Your mom and Greta sent along a package for you..."

"Down." Charon interrupted, pushing on the top of her greasy head so she landed back on the ancient abused lawn chair. It creaked and protested but didn't snap. "I will take care of this."

"Goddamnit, Charon. You are not my errand boy." Izzy glared at her bodyguard in a manner that Gob would never ever dare duplicate.

"No. I'm not." He glared right back at her.

"Charon..." The way she said his name it sounded like they were about to gear up for a row.

It was frightening to see Charon so free with his words, even if he wasn't saying much. Gob knew about some of the contract's language. Ahzrukhal had waved the damned thing around enough to prove how tame his super-soldier was. Had humiliated him in front of everyone and Charon had taken it, silently, even if his expression spelled murder. Evil didn't begin to describe Ahzrukhal.

Isidore was... well, she'd done some really bad things. Moriarty's death had been a cold-blooded, premeditated murder. There was something horrific in the realization that his new best pal could shove a grenade down a man's pants and then stand back and watch while he exploded. As much as Gob hated Colin, and wished he'd drop dead, he'd never wanted Izzy to kill him. It still seemed so unreal that sometimes, late at night in bed with Nova, he thought he heard the dead man's boots on the promenade. He'd pull her close until the terror passed. Until he was sure their freedom wasn't just a dream.

Far as Isidore's part in it all, Gob had needed to think about her- about how Izzy acted. That look when she faced him in the second after she'd turned Moriarty's lower body into meat pudding; he'd never forget it. She might have hugged him if Gob hadn't lunged at her, screaming like a madman. When time passed and he'd found he couldn't hate her, he tried to make up for that knee-jerk reaction. Colin had been a royal shit and Izzy was still his best pal. Only a special kind of crazy person did something that heinous for all the right reasons.

Summoning his courage, the smaller ghoul waved a hand in between them. "How about I go get it? Where's your pack?"

"Stand down." Charon barked at him, delivering one glance over his immense armored shoulder.

Gob didn't realize he'd taken a step backward until he felt the edge of the gangway under his foot. "Uh... fine. Fine."

"You're being an ass." Isidore's tone was more one for pointing out the obvious than an accusation.

Charon's attention fell to her. His murky gray eyes narrowed. "I do not wish to spend one more minute in this place than we have to. You will sit. I will attend this."

Gob stared at Isidore as she laughed. That wasn't exactly the reaction he'd have to an irritated Charon. The big ghoul inclined his head to accept her surrender on the point and stalked back to the line of three brahmin.

The Confessor noticed him and started up his benediction, "Glorious Son of Atom, you have returned to us..."

Charon snarled something unintelligible, then cut him off with a thunderous "Fuck you, Cromwell" before turning back to Moira's guard. With the big ghoul occupied, Gob felt safer. He crouched next to Isidore so their conversation would be semi-private.

"Look, Izzy, we need to talk about Charon..."

"I know he's grouchy." Isidore's tone was soft. "But he's really tired, Gob. He's been carting my stupid lame ass around and this thing with the Raiders was just the icing on a shit cake."

The barman sighed. "That's not what I meant."

"What did you mean?"

Under her searching eyes the warning wouldn't come. What did come out was lukewarm and not worded the way he wanted at all. "I-I knew him, kinda, back when I lived in Underworld." He took a deep breath. "Just be careful with him."

Isidore smiled, reaching out to hug his shoulders. "Don't worry, Gob. He's safe with me. I promise."

Gob winced at her words, and the odor, but squeezed back before releasing her. "Yeah."

A thump against his shoulder made him jerk. Charon was waiting there holding a rather large box. Gob stood up and brushed imaginary dirt from his hands. He hoped the big ghoul hadn't heard them.

"Your mother requested that I make sure you're eating properly." Charon bent so he could look into Gob's face. "There's no need for me to observe." His tone suggested that there better not be.

"Uh. No. No. I'm doing just fine by myself." Gob flashed a nervous smile and accepted his mail.

Charon gave a satisfied grunt before stepping back.

"Well, open it." Izzy prompted.

Gob, unable to resist, sat down and unfolded the flaps to be greeted with a letter sitting on top of a tin. He took the letter and examined the tin. Cookies from Greta. Beneath that were clothes-- underwear and soap. Pajamas too. Mom's doing. He smiled. Carol still thought of him as little, toddling around with his binky hanging out of his mouth. Most clothing had been so itchy on his rad burns and unevenly growing skin.


End file.
